a pilgrimage to each of five ponds in concord, ma, trailing thoreau’s steps, a walking buddy 200 years late, accompanied by a friend, brother and dog.



at the first pond she encounters wasps, and, struck with childish elation and a swollen ankle, bounds to the edge of flints pond to cool her bite and collect some pictures of the metallic surface.



next to goose pond, surrounded by private homes, forcing her to rehearse elaborate excuses in her head while creeping under brush and thorns and sinking her now puffed ankle deep into a bog to collect her images.



on to whites pond, where her dog is delighted to find many a small dead fish along the shore, omens?



almost last, to her (and his) dear walden, with such infinitely variable yet always familiar wave patterns, how can i pick just one?



last, a real life magic trip through a small woods to the edge of fairhaven bay, to find a little boathouse and dock along the shore, behold the lily pads and large fish below, and collect the last shots she needs to complete her/his circuit.

A lake is a landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature. It is Earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature. Walden, H.D. Thoreau

how do pond’s see?

unlike our usual cameras, the ponds lens can both see up and out into the landscape, and down deep into her depths. only when seeing through the pond can the viewer know the pond’s eye view. the pond’s surface gently moving, reminding us of the body of the image, a meeting of two becomes the wholeness of one.


if ponds are eyes, can they also be cameras?

if images want a future, they will need to remember their watery beginning, their pre-digital, primeval processing, when, like ponds, all they were was water and light. how shallow, the snapshot without reference to her maker. how boring, the self-conscience selfie. images of the future will need clarity and reflection, to see and see the seeing.